


Just Once

by onamaewa



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Groping, PWP, Somnophilia, Timestopping, Vaginal Fingering, no beta we die like sayaka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onamaewa/pseuds/onamaewa
Summary: Homura decides to make the most of the dregs of a failed timeline.
Relationships: Akemi Homura/Kaname Madoka
Kudos: 38





	Just Once

The other girls were dead.

Homura did not mourn them. She hadn't had the emotional capacity left to cry for anyone but Madoka for nearly seventeen loops running, now. Grief took energy, more than could be afforded, and Homura had long since given up on the idea of an ending where all of their merry little band lived to see the dawn after Walpurisnacht.

Madoka, however, was unconscious in Homura's arms, transiently harmed but safe and secure. Probably just fainted from shock. Homura jumped over another building, eyes on the horizon. With limited magic for time-stopping, efficiency was key. Sayaka's witch had been tough this time around, and Kyoko, as usual, had proven insufficient to both take her down _and_ get Madoka to safety.

It had all been so quick, and the whole run was hopelessly off the rails yet again. There would be no stopping the stage-builder witch when she came, and Homura held no illusions about the potential of the other girls in the neighborhood, nor the cooperation skills of the remaining magical girls in the country. (She had tried an army before. Once. It was like herding cats into a meat grinder.)

She dropped Madoka into the air for a moment to open the door of the vacant apartment she'd been squatting in for storage. It wasn't nearly as nice as her actual apartment, but it was closer to the railroad where Sayaka's witch had spawned this time around, and she didn't want to push her magic any farther than needed until she had a chance to cleanse her gem. She would need to save up for the coming battle. If she was being honest, though, it was already a lost cause.

She had failed even with teamwork. Homura didn't stand a chance alone, not like this. Not unless Madoka contracted, and that wasn't happening. Not this time, and not ever.

Homura refused to let the crowning jewel of her universe damn herself like that. Even without corrupting, it would always be a race against time, against limits, against entropy itself. A half-life of war and shattered souls. Even the passing thought tore at her heart, and distracted her for a moment before she unclenched her fists and regained her composure.

Madoka did not see her. Madoka hung suspended in midair, eyelids still shut, hair aflutter. God, she was beautiful like this. Homura wished she could have had the power to just preserve things in time like this forever, to protect them and never let them go. If only even the cancellation of time itself wasn't so... temporary.

Homura let her hang there for a few long, slow moments, admiring her body. Madoka was such a dainty thing, even compared to Homura's sickly skinny limbs and pale indoor skin. Such a nice shape to her. Homura leaned in a little closer, toward her face, until she could have pecked her on the lips if she wasn't worried about the other girl falling. Madoka's hair wasn't black at the roots, but naturally fair, Homura knew, a sort of strawberry blonde that turned rosy pink with magic, though it was all greyscale while time stood still. The name of her hair color reminded Homura of strawberry milk, those cutesy pink cans and cartons in the vending machines. Would Madoka herself taste just as sweet, she wondered?

It occured to Homura that she was wasting magic. She sighed, hefted Madoka's limp form over one shoulder, then resumed the flow of time and entered her apartment.

Once she had the door locked behind her, Homura laid Madoka out on the lone futon in the corner and started going over her weapons stockpile. She kept plenty in her shield already, but there was always extra she couldn't be bothered to lug around. Plus, it helped her ration ammunition if she didn't give herself all of it at once. It was always an expenditure of magic to get more, not to mention the risk of slipping up enough to actually get hurt. The last thing she needed was to end up dying for real because she was careless enough to let some Yakuza gunman get in a lucky shot.

That, and there was a sense of discipline that came with the soft limit of resources. It made every shot count. Sometimes she even liked to challenge herself, to see how few shots she could kill a witch with, though she was never foolish enough to leave herself without a buffer for mistakes.

Not that any of that mattered right now. She couldn't focus, and she could tell herself all she liked that it was just coincidence or nerves, but she was fairly sure it was entirely to do with Madoka's sleeping form atop the blankets. She would find herself staring, again and again, eyes tracing the line of those legs, that nose, the soft faint brows of her closed eyes. It was more distracting than it had any right to be, really.

Homura gave up after another few minutes and crept over to sit beside the futon. Madoka's chest rose and fell gently with each breath. Having her near was comforting, with the constant proof that she still lived, but it wasn't worry that brought her face close to Madoka's again, near enough to feel her breath on the exhale.

She ran a finger down the line of Madoka's shoulder, ghosting over her arm down to the front of her shirt, along her-- her breast, Homura acknowledged, feeling her cheeks grow a little warm at the thought. The fabric wasn't pressed stiff anymore, like at the start of the year. It gave way a little, letting Homura feel the curve of Madoka's chest as it moved beneath her hand.

As Homura's fingertips brushed the top of Madoka's skirt, it occurred to her that she really shouldn't be doing this. Madoka might wake up any moment and object. What would she think, to open her eyes to Homura feeling her up, however chastely, in her sleep? In a strange apartment, at that?

But the temptation outweighed the worry, and Homura had wanted this for such a very long time. Surely, the universe might be kind enough to give her just a few moments of chance?

Or, she thought to herself, with growing certainty, she could make those moments herself.

Homura froze time again, pausing shift of Madoka's chest mid-rise. As long as she didn't touch, it wouldn't break the stasis. She had a seed in the apartment, one she'd harvested from the same witch consistently enough to know how long it would remain stable for. Practice had reduced the ticking time bomb to a simple use-by date, like it was a bottle of milk soon to spoil instead of ball of dormant, writhing despair.

This timeline was a bust, she decided. It had been clear already, but she was making it official now. She wouldn't see this through -- no futile last stand, and no worrying. So long as she left enough to rewind, she had nearly all the time in the world to do what she wanted.

And all she wanted was in this room, right beside her.

She felt a little guilty taking off Madoka's skirt, but it was well worth it, she decided. To see the shape of her legs uninterrupted as they came together to form her butt, the curvature of her spine as it ran under her shirt, was like viewing a delicate work of art. The little imperfections of a still-growing girl didn't diminish her loveliness at all, in Homura's not-so-humble opinion. If anything, they enhanced it.

Homura stopped just shy of touching a little pale scar on Madoka's thigh, wondering where it had come from. If she asked, what story might there be behind it? Maybe some childhood accident, or something else utterly, beautifully mundane. Not that she would have ever asked, of course. The thought was mortifying. She had made enough mistakes in the first several timelines, and it felt like a knife to the heart every time Madoka looked at her too strangely, like something was wrong.

(Once, Homura had nearly driven her away with an overly personal remark, and it was like she had died a dozen times over, hyperventilating and crying in her room. Those were back in the days when she still had the energy in her to cry over pointless things.)

Without the waist of her skirt in the way, Madoka's blouse slid up easily, and while Homura couldn't touch, she could lean over and breathe in Madoka's scent up close. On impulse, Homura carefully crawled over her so she was straddling Madoka's prone body, with her hands and knees just far enough apart to keep from disturbing that perfect, distilled moment.

It wasn't quite the same without the soft sound and motion of her breathing, though. There was a vitality to it that the timestop lacked.

Precisely, so as not to draw it out any longer than intended, Homura reached out and rubbed a tuft of Madoka's soft hair between her fingers and thumb. The texture was soothing, so much so it was difficult to stop, but she controlled herself, watching Madoka take three steady breaths, in and out, before letting go again.

The scene was so much better in full color. There was a warmth to it, too, that made something ache inside her, the feel of Madoka so close to her skin. She made contact again, this time sliding Madoka's blouse up a little further, to expose her breasts. Like with the skirt, it was cautious work, since there was a risk of disturbing her, but Madoka did not stir as Homura moved a third time, leaning back on her knees, and unbuttoned the top of the blouse. She didn't want to try taking it off completely, but this was plenty already. Such a sight before her.

Madoka didn't really have a proper chest yet, but neither did Homura. She was perfect regardless -- she would be if she had one, and she still was without. She was Madoka, and for Homura, that was all that she had to be. Homura spent a moment hovering a finger, then two, between Madoka's breasts, reveling in the closeness, but still leaving just a hair's breadth between skin and skin.

She fumbled slightly on withdrawal, brushing against the center of Madoka's bare stomach and turning her visage full-color for a split second before hastily correcting course. She couldn't get clumsy. Couldn't wake her.

But surely, it wouldn't hurt just a bit?

She rested her fingers there again, just setting the pads against the soft skin. Madoka's stomach torso was small, warm, and rounded with a bit of childish pudge. Homura lingered for several seconds before trailing her touch down to the next barrier of cloth, and couldn't contain her fascination any longer.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Homura worked painstaking slowly. It took longer than she would have liked to ease off Madoka's underwear, but it was easier once Homura decided she didn't really need to worry about what would happen after. An extremely careful few cuts with a thin razor blade simplified the process immensely, so the garment sat beneath her rather than having to be pulled down her legs. (Extremely careful, because she would never have forgiven herself if she made this timeline's Madoka bleed.)

Though sexual education was technically taught as early as the end of elementary school, Homura had not actually seen another girl's parts before. The pictures in the textbook didn't even show the thing up close. The closest she could recall was a chance encounter with online pornography -- the focus had been on the man's virility, which she honestly could not have cared less for, and she had closed the tab before anything more happened.

She had certainly never seen such a thing in person.

It was interesting, and curious, and unfamiliar, but if Madoka was beautiful in her entirety, then by definition, this could be nothing else.

Homura gently moved Madoka's legs apart and knelt between them. She studied the shape a little closer, but didn't touch it yet. Her time was still limited, and she didn't want to use it up too fast. Then, very tentatively, she placed her index finger on the top of the folded shape, alien and organic and human and above all _Madoka's_. It felt like a sacrilege to do so, and she almost stopped there, but instead, she pressed a little more, setting her other hand down on Madoka's abdomen, feeling the heat of her skin.

Madoka shifted a little, but didn't quite wake. Her breathing felt heavier under Homura's palm, though, and she seemed to press a little against Homura's hand. Homura became increasingly aware that her own breathing had grown faster as well, her hips twitching in a circular sort of motion she didn't even register in her fixation. Her cheeks felt flushed again, stronger than before.

She had touched herself while thinking of Madoka before, in previous loops. The first time, she had spent the rest of the night marinating in shame and embarrassment at what she had done, but she had enjoyed it too much to swear off of it. (The next day at school had been unbelievably awkward, unable to stop thinking of Madoka's eyes, Madoka's hips, the feeling of rocking against herself under the covers. Homura did not have nearly that kind of shame anymore.)

Homura pulled her hand away first, to ration her time. She wanted, needed to make every second of this count.

She put one hand between her own legs and rubbed against it, feeling the waves of quiet pleasure ripple through her. Madoka's legs still lay invitingly splayed, but she waited until she was good and ready before she touched again. This time, she explored a little, petting the soft flesh above, then flitting down to tease at the lower part of the slit, between the two main folds. Madoka twitched again, her leg muscles tensing, and Homura pulled back when she saw Madoka's eyelids flutter.

 _Just a little longer, please_ , she begged. _Just let me have this_.

Her movements got more desperate, pressed lower between her legs. Homura rocked faster, barely keeping herself from brushing against Madoka's legs. She let her eyes wander, from the form in front of her to her mind's eye. Madoka, smiling. Madoka, embracing her. Madoka's bare chest, but against Homura's own, and Madoka didn't care about the impropriety of it, and let Homura's hands wander where they wanted. Madoka, putting a thigh between Homura's legs, clinging to her, so close, so--

A sense of completion filled her from her belly to her fingers and toes, a comforting full-body shiver of contentment. Homura could lay here and rest her face against Madoka's chest and she would be content. Even to just curl up at her feet like a lazy cat would be more than she had ever deserved.

The color of her slit, the pinkness of it, seemed sweet as strawberry.

The color. Wait.

Time had resumed. Madoka was already shifting, and Homura could read confusion written plainly across her face and between her searching hands. She opened her eyes and shrieked, her legs snapping together like a door slamming shut.

Homura couldn't stand to see her face when she realized what had happened. She had seen Madoka hurt and afraid too many times, and angered and horrified too many more, but being the cause of such a thing was so much worse.

Homura awoke in a hospital bed. The April sunlight beamed down through the windows, as if to welcome her home. She shooed a cat off the road, and filled a little white monster with bullets, and didn't think about anything for a long, long time.


End file.
